The Actress and the American
by Kallios the Scholar
Summary: Bridget Von Hammersmark's relationship with Aldo Raine, during Operation Kino and after the war ended. AU, of course, for Bridget not being strangled by Hans Landa.
1. Opening Scenes

**Disclaimer: Me? Own _them_? *bursts out laughing***

**Author's notes: This is Bridget/Aldo goodness, and _why the Hell is there only one other story written about them? Why?_ Seriously, I was expecting more than one other person to ship this pairing. World, I am disappointed in you!**

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Sitting on the metal table in the veterinary clinic, listening as the dogs were whipped to barking excitement by the smell of her blood, Bridget Von Hammersmark made a decision: she absolutely, completely, and utterly _hated_ Lt. Aldo Raine.

Her work with the resistance had never gotten her injured before. Her job was seduction, soothing the feelings of the Nazis when suspicious situations arose, escorting members of the covert, anti-Hitler resistance through areas bristling with uniforms and guns. And, if Fate had been kind, it would have been like that in La Louisiane. But it hadn't been, and she'd gotten shot.

It was a pain unlike that of anything she'd felt before, more intense and more focused than any other hurt she'd ever previously suffered. And when Aldo the Apache had dug his finger into the wound, pressing the bullet up against her tibia, she'd wanted to scream. She nearly had.

She'd hated him because he hadn't hesitated to hurt her, because he'd done so without any sign of remorse, because he was so damn blithe about torturing her to make sure that she was honest. His atrocious American accent would have had her clawing at the walls if she'd had just a little less self control. Aldo Raine was, in short, the very antithesis of every romantic hero that she had ever encountered, in both fiction and reality. She was expecting something else. She wanted _anything_ else. But the Apache was never going to change. Not for anybody, and definitely not for a German actress that he seemed to despise with every fiber of his being.

Oh, yes, she could see that Aldo the Apache was disgusted by her. She knew it. He hated the brilliant red lipstick she wore, her dress, her shoes, he hated her beauty and her wealth and the fact that Bridget had never suffered as he had suffered to bring the Nazis down. She was less than him. And Bridget could see that it galled him, to bathe and trim his hair and wear that white smoking jacket that she had selected. Such a thing was a blow to his pride, which made the blonde woman want to smirk. But underneath the actress and socialite Bridget was a very intelligent woman, and she did no such thing. It was her victory over him, small and petty though it was, and Von Hammersmark was very careful not to show how much she enjoyed it.

That was perhaps why Aldo treated her with such courtesy on the way to the party—treating her not as a commander that he didn't particularly like (and in the theater, that was her temporary but _de facto_ role) but as an equal. And, for some reason, Bridget valued that. It was a measure of respect from a man she hated, but it was _earned_ because she had consented to going along with their hare-brained scheme and done her share of the work involved—finding a car, getting the tuxedos ready, making sure that Omar knew at least a few words of Italian to use on any German that attempted conversation with him, treating the Basterds as respected equals as they all prepared for the biggest deception of their entire lives. The respect Bridget got in return felt _good._ Better than the flattering words she received from her fans, better than the praise from the men that desired her.

And, as if to prove true all the stereotypes concerning mercurial actresses, Bridget Von Hammesmark stopped hating Lt. Aldo Raine.

* * *

"Are we ready?" Bridget asked once their vehicle had stopped.

"Yeah," Donny said, flicking his unfinished cigarette out the open window. "Ready as anything." The Bear Jew stepped out of the car, which was parked several streets away from Le Gamaar thanks to the number of people attending _Stolz der Nation_. Aldo stepped out of the car next, followed by the actress.

In her sparkling black dress Bridget Von Hammersmark appeared as a Teutonic goddess, as a Germanic Aphrodite. It was her business to be beautiful, but now she was _stunning_, and she could feel Donny and Aldo looking at her for a moment in a way that many men had looked at Bridget before. It was nothing new for the actress and she had grown quite used to it after her first year in the film-making business. But what was different, what made Bridget's stomach churn slightly and her step falter a bit, was the way Aldo's gaze flicked up from her one shoe and brazenly raked over her face like he was more interested in that than anything else. Like he had seen a dozen girls with bodies that were more interesting, but he found her face more appealing than anything else.

It made Bridget turn away from him, embarrassed.

They walked in silence. When the trio reached the theater Bridget stumbled slightly, unused to switching from street to tiled floors when wearing a cast on one leg and a high-heeled shoe on the other. Aldo caught her arm, let her weight sway back onto her feet as she steadied herself. His hand seemed ten times warmer than her skin.

Bridget resisted the urge to shiver. Maybe, maybe when Hitler was dead and the war had ended, she would see if she could make Aldo look at her face that way again. But for now, there was business to attend to.

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**Like it? Hate it? Want to hire Donny Donowitz to beat my head in with his baseball bat? Please tell me. Honestly, I've never written anything like this before, and I want to know what people think. Showing the transition between hatred and respect was very difficult, and I'm not sure if I entirely justified it *taps chin and scowls at keyboard in reflection.***


	2. Rising Action

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Inglourious Basterds_. Aldo has promised that if I claim otherwise, he will send The Bear Jew after me with his baseball bat.**

**Author's Note: I thought this would be a one-shot. Really. I had wanted to end this fic with chapter one. But then the plot bunny showed up with a bottle of moonshine and a Luger, and I realized that I would be writing more. I should say I'm sorry, but I'm not. And I doubt you are either, really.**

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It all seemed shot to Hell.

The German actress had survived Le Gamaar, staggering out of the theater once Landa had almost-correctly presumed she was dead and left the proprietor's office. She'd nearly died. The experience had terrified her, shattered some inner, confident part of her that allowed her to act so easily. On the most important performance of her life, Hans Landa had seen right through her.

Acting was Bridget's passion and it was also her greatest skill beyond looking beautiful and charming her way into a man's heart. Her prowess in that particular field was superb. She knew she was good, and she had been relying heavily on that natural talent that she'd perfected into an art form over the years. In the Nazi-infested French cinema, it had been the way she'd steadied herself: pretending that the fabulously rich and gorgeous blonde woman who'd injured herself mountain climbing was just another role to play, just another character that required flawless impersonation. There had been hundreds watching, but Bridget was more accustomed to thousands, and the idea of pretending that she was on stage had relaxed her nerves and stopped her from breaking down completely.

But Hans Landa had seen through her, seemingly as easily as a child looks through a window. Was she really so shallow? Was she really so easy to read? How had Landa _known_, in God's name? He'd gotten the evidence, yes, but it takes more than evidence to cause decisions. He had seen something. Something in her posture, in her stance, in the flickerings of unease that had stirred in her stomach and might have shown their traitorous selves during his questioning of her. No matter how many sleepless nights Bridget spent dwelling on the matter, the fact remained the same: in her subconscious and on a deep, personal level, she always held herself to blame for Hans Landa discovering the assassination plot.

The Jew Hunter had confronted her, shown her the shoe she had lost in La Louisiane, and in that moment Bridget Von Hammersmark had known that she was doomed. He had strangled her, and—thinking that she was dead when her eyes had closed and she stopped struggling—nearly killed her. It'd been pure torture not to gasp in air once his hands left her throat, but instead breathe slowly and shallowly to feign death. Even harder when she heard him pick up the phone and give a confirmation to his men: "The one in the white smoking jacket." God, how that line would haunt her, more than anything ever recorded in any film she had starred in.

That was Aldo. Aldo Raine, the Tennessee bootlegger turned Nazi-killer. Even when just barely snatched away from the jaws of the death, Bridget could hear and remember. She had selected that white jacket, paid for it, ordered it to be tailored to fit Aldo, and in the brightly-lit clothier's workshop had watched him secure the red boutonniere to his lapel. He had combed his hair, and when brushing past him to go to the bathroom and put on her dress and makeup, Bridget could remember that the American had smelled like soap.

She had waited to hear gunshots in the lobby where Aldo had been waiting for her and sipping champagne, wondered whether there would be a chance for him to fight back against his soon-to-be killers. Donny and Omar would never see it coming. Operation Kino was a failure. They were all going to die, and—

There had been no gunshots. Even after Landa had left the office, there had been no gunshots. When the door had closed behind the SS officer with a soft click that seemed to echo in the small, cluttered space, Bridget had waited for five seconds. They seemed to stretch on for several centuries, and then she'd gasped, madly gasped, as graceless as a fish stranded on the sand, getting in the oxygen that her body had been deprived off. The coffee and tobacco scented air of Shosanna Dreyfus's office was the sweetest smell Bridget had ever encountered. She had breathed until she felt relatively normal, and then she'd stood up, straightened her clothes, and walked out of the office like a queen emerging from her castle. Aldo hadn't been in the lobby, but there was a shattered champagne glass lying in pieces on the tiled floor.

She'd left the theater.

She'd gone to where Utivich had parked the car, and found three of the windows broken and Utivich nowhere to be found. In fact, there had been no-one at all to be found. The nighttime streets of Paris were utterly deserted and utterly silent that night.

Bridget had sat in the car, wondering what was to become of her now that her allegiance to the OSS had been revealed. She had found a pack of Red Apple cigarettes lying on the seat, left behind by Omar, and had smoked two of the cigarettes as her fingers trembled and tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. Not the false tears of faked sorrow that the cameras and the audience demanded, but rather those of real grief as raw as a new wound.

And then the cinema had exploded.

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**So... good as the first chapter? Good enough to continue? Please don't bribe Stiglitz into killing me when a simple review will tell me how you think. Extra points if you can swear in German!**


	3. Climax

**Third chapter! Woo! This one was definitely the hardest to write, and I'm not entirely sure about the quality of the ending... but you'll have to read and decide for yourself. And I guess I have to thank Mrs. Stiglitz for inspiring me. She has magic powers, people. I am serious. As soon as she reviews, I am suddenly cured of writer's block and can finish this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: For what is undoubtedly _not_ the last time (because I fully intend to continue this story) I do not and will never own _Inglourious Basterds_. No matter how many times I petition Santa Claus to give it to me.**

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Aldo Raine, Aldo the Apache, the man who had applauded with whole-hearted enthusiasm as he watched Donny Donowitz beat Nazis to death with a baseball bat, was so completely out of his element that it was almost ridiculous. Actually, no. Take that back. It _was_ ridiculous.

Bridget Von Hammersmark rolled her eyes at her wine glass and wished that she could pretend she didn't know him.

Raine, Utivich, and herself were in London, being hailed as heroes. Germany had surrendered four days after the massacre of their entire high command, and Aldo was doing his damnedest to make everyone hate him. He was being _atrociously_ American, and Bridget could have sworn that his accent had thickened more than she'd previously thought possible.

The German movie-star sipped at the dark wine in her glass, a decisive move meant to give herself time to think. She was surrounded by high-ranking officers and politicians, all of them talking to her, all of them wanting to hear the story of what had transpired at Le Gamaar. Only, it wasn't the true story. Merely an edited version of events, thanks to the demands of Hans Landa. There was a blue haze of cigar and cigarette smoke hanging over the blonde woman's immaculate golden curls, and she was being bombarded by a babble of British, French, and American voices. They had all come. They had all come to congratulate the heroes who had killed Hitler.

Bridget Von Hammersmark was in her most comfortable setting. She was used to fancy parties and the attention of powerful men and their wives. She was at home here, wearing a dress that shimmered and sparkled and heels that gave her an extra three inches of height. This was her element and she could navigate in it with ease.

Whereas Aldo Raine was... not.

He was wearing that white smoking jacket she had gotten him, perhaps because he had nothing else that would be suitable for an occasion such as this, and perhaps because he had been too disgusted with the entire affair to want to dignify the event by buying new clothes. The latter scenario was far too likely, knowing Aldo as she did. He hated being here. It was so obvious that the American might as well have held up a sign saying so. And the Apache was bored: he had been sitting through speeches all night with a very obvious lack of patience.

It was plain that Aldo hated the people around him. Or rather, that he despised them. Both his talk and his laughter was a little too loud, a little too rustic, a little too abrasively _southern_. And it was all on purpose. The man was, in his own way, sneering at them. Bridget had honestly expected the American to be drinking heavily to help himself through the evening, but that didn't seem to be happening—that, or else Aldo Raine had an incredible resistance to alcohol. Either way, he seemed to be keeping his wits about him. He could manage more intelligence than the actress had given him credit for. Bridget wished that he could also have grasped the meaning of the word _genteel_, but right now it seemed that Aldo enjoyed being malicious too much to do so.

"Hello, _Frau_ Von Hammersmark!" a cheerful voice pipped up from behind her.

Bridget turned, and saw...

Hans Landa, the former SS officer. He who had recently won the Congressional Medal of Honor. Who was a murderer being treated as a visiting prince. Who had so very nearly become _her_ murderer.

Bridget Von Hammersmark forgot how to breathe.

* * *

Landa was smiling. He was wearing his new American officer's uniform, each piece of fabric carefully brushed and cleaned. His boots were silent testimony to several hours of devotion by a boot-blacking boy. Those murky, blue-green eyes were sparkling with his usual silent, inward mirth.

The finger-shaped bruises around Bridget's throat, so carefully concealed beneath a fur stole, throbbed painfully as the former SS officer beamed cheerfully at her.

"Hello, Hans," the actress managed. Her voice was shaking slightly, and her smile—which had once rested so easily on her face—was now stiff and forced. She was suddenly aware of how her lips ached from the effort of maintaining it.

"And how is the leg? Feeling better?" Landa inquired. His hands clasped behind his back, the colonel bounced forward on the balls of his feet briefly before his heels settled back on the floor. He seemed... energetic, filled with good cheer, charismatic as always. But now those bared teeth resembled a shark's leer rather than a carefree grin. The actress felt a shiver drag its way up her spine with icy fingers.

"Much. Very much, colonel. And your forehead?" It was a weak comeback. Bridget knew it, Landa knew it, and anyone who knew why the supposedly-OSS man was wearing a bandage over his forehead and a cap with a brim knew it as well.

Bridget was vaguely aware of her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Her eyes, unbidden, searched the room for exits and wondered how quickly she would be able to reach them. Landa saw the movement. Of course he did. As he watched her eyes dart to the doors his smile grew a trifle wider. For the first time, Bridget understood _exactly_ how a hunted animal felt. The feeling was remarkably unpleasant.

Landa was utterly untouchable here. When he had discovered that Bridget had escaped both his strangulation and the explosion that had reduced Le Gamaar to a pile of smoldering ruin, a further condition of his conditional surrender had been introduced: Bridget Von Hammersmark was never to press charges against Landa for attempted homicide, and she was not to get credit for thinking up Operation Kino. Despite the several hundred people that were in this huge room, mingling after a long evening of speeches and awards, Bridget could count on one hand the number of them who knew about what had happened to her in Shosanna Dreyfus's office. The remaining Basterds, herself, Mr. Churchill, and... and that was all.

The German actress wanted to kick off her shoes and run. She was aware of people staring at her, noticing the faint tremors that were going up and down her spine, her arms, her leg with its bandage. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach was threatening an upheaval. That smile, and those knowing eyes, seemed to be boring straight into the actress and hammering on the button marked PANIC with frantic fists.

Landa knew. Oh, he knew, knew that she was remembering the feeling of his hands wrapped around her throat, her feelings of utter helplessness and the surety of impending death... he knew, and he reveled in his knowing as he watched her squirm before his very eyes.

* * *

In the end, some politician's wife who'd been hanging onto Utivich's arm the entire evening took pity on Bridget and swooped in, drawing Landa away from Bridget and into a discussion of social mores—one that he wouldn't be able to politely escape from for quite awhile. The actress retired to the sidelines, standing off to one side and willing her hands to stop shaking. She smoothed her hair and went to the powder room, checking her makeup slowly and carefully—partly to be sure that it was impeccable, and partly to buy time to compose herself.

There was a knock on the door.

"_Ja_?" Bridget responded, answering in German out of habit.

"You wanna go fer a walk or somethin'?" That unmistakable voice, complete with atrocious American accent.

Bridget sighed and held her hands out in front of her, standing in front of the sink. Except for the faintest of tremors, they had stopped shaking. She could think coherently and the fear-adrenaline was almost completely gone.

"Yes, thank you," the actress said, more wearily than she intended. Her taste for the party, her enjoyment of the elegant sophistication she had found there, was completely gone now. What the German woman wanted to do right now, more than anything else, was to return to her hotel room and curl up in her bed with a cigarette, some wine, and a romantic novel of some sort.

But the offer of a walk had its own appeal. And besides, it would be churlish of her to refuse. Bridget opened the door to the powder room and was confronted with the sight of the Lieutenant leaning one shoulder against the wall, snapping shut the lid on his snuff box. As she watched, the American tucked the little container away. Apparently he had taken his tobacco immediately after speaking to her.

"And where are we going?" Bridget asked.

Aldo shrugged in reply. They walked.

The oddly-matched duo eventually found themselves strolling through the garden surrounding the building that the party was in. The name of the place escaped Bridget at the moment, but the garden was beautiful—filled with flowering vines and immaculate beds of brightly-colored blooms. There was a small paved walkway. Bridget and Aldo walked side by side, but otherwise in silence.

The American's attention seemed half on the woman beside him and half on other things, though what things precisely Bridget had no idea. Bridget herself tried to find something to say, realized that there was no such thing, and instead let the heavy floral scent of the gardens enter her nose and calm her as she walked. Her heels clicked on the stone of the narrow pathway.

"Why here?" Bridget asked eventually, her impatience returning as soon as the last vestiges of her fear were gone. Normally she could be a very patient person when she wished—her performance in La Louisiane had proven that. But the very fact that she had so very nearly _ran away_ from Hans Landa, in front of some of the most powerful men in Europe, displaying her emotions so plainly... that stung her, and dug a knife into her pride. Embarrassment became anger, and the German couldn't help but let it manifest itself.

"Eh?" Aldo asked in return, stopping and turning his full attention on the woman beside him.

Bridget gestured to their surroundings with one outstretched arm. "What's so important about this place?" she asked.

Aldo shrugged. "Seemed good as the next one," he replied. So calm. Always so damn calm, as though nothing could make him lose his self-control. Even in the veterinary clinic, confronted with the loss of three of his men, his face had never changed and his voice had remained even.

Bridget rolled her eyes. In the light of the lamps that had been scattered through the gardens, the woman's blonde curls seemed almost like a halo. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, and her eyes were extremely blue. Aldo's eyes went lower than the actress's neck, noting every feature and then returning to that face. It had been captured on cameras hundreds of times, immortalizing youth and beauty in film.

The scar that was wrapped around his throat looked oddly like a necklace. The thought occurred to Bridget suddenly, coming out of what appeared to be nowhere. Bridget looked up from Aldo's throat, at his face, and knew.

He saw through her.

Lt. Aldo Raine saw through Bridget Von Hammersmark as easily as Landa had, looking past the facade of peerless socialite and actress with the same ease that the former SS officer had possessed. Perhaps it was because the American had seen her at her worst, covered with blood and nearly delirious with pain—but either way, the American knew. He was looking at Bridget Von Hammersmark, not a character, and no matter how many acts the German woman played, no matter how many deceptions the blonde brought up, he would always see through them.

The fact was oddly freeing.

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**Aldo is fun to write at parties. Am I the only one here who thinks that the accent and mannerisms he puts on are partway an act? Seriously, I think he likes it when people think he's a dumb, brutish American. It's just a guess, but... well, enough of my musings. Moving on...**

**Wow. Relationship depth. I didn't know I was capable of writing it. Anyway, please tell me what you think in a review. Feel free to favorite, flame, follow, and in general show the world (and me) that you're taking some notice of this story. Remember: reviews are a writer's food and drink. They make us happy!**


	4. Falling Action

**And it is here that the readers discover that Kallios cannot write an M-rated scene to save her life, and so took the coward's way out *ducks head to hide blush beneath hat* This chapter is super-short, so I'm posting this one and the next at the same time.**

**Disclaimer: Me no own.**

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Aldo was a warmth pressing against her back, and Bridget could hear him breathing slowly and evenly as he slipped off towards sleep. At least, that was what Bridget thought the American was doing. She was a woman who knew many men, and could read them the way other women read books, but Aldo Raine was be a blank page in front of her. The concept (and the reality of it) was as refreshing as it was novel.

The German actress slowly and carefully maneuvered away from the Lieutenant, sitting up slowly and leaning against the cool wood of the bed's headboard. She reached over and selected a cigarette from the open case on the nightstand, groping in the darkness for her lighter for a moment before finding it and opening it with a practiced flick of her wrist.

In the light of the small flame it produced, Bridget saw the reflection of the fire in Aldo's brown eyes. He was awake, and watching her.

Bridget snapped the lighter shut and smoked in silence, brilliant-colored afterimages glowing before her eyes. She gave up on the cigarette halfway through and ground out its small red glow in the ashtray that had been supplied by the hotel. She felt loose and relaxed, contented and tired... _peaceful_, in other words. Sleep was a very attractive prospect right now.

Aldo Raine was still very warm. Bridget curled up against him and let the American put an arm around her, holding her loosely. She was not in love. That was what Bridget told herself in the darkness, as she listened to Aldo breathe. Love was a faked emotion that Von Hammersmark had employed for the screen at least half a hundred times. It had never been anything she had felt herself. But still... The silence between herself and the Apache was as thick as cigar smoke, full of unspoken things—most of which Bridget wouldn't have been able to put into words, even if she'd tried her hardest.

No line in any of her films could quite describe this. No portrayal could ever explain what had gone on, what was happening now. The silence remained as thick as cigar smoke as Bridget closed her eyes, feeling Aldo press his chapped lips against her shoulder briefly.

"We'll do somethin' 'bout Landa," the American murmured. The silence was broken briefly, but then returned as though it had always been, and the German actress smiled in the darkness. She was not in love. But Aldo Raine was still a very wonderful man.

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**What? So I like to indulge in the occasional scene of shameless fluff? I couldn't help myself.**


	5. The End

**This is the final chapter. Admittedly, the entire fic is pretty short, but still... thanks for bearing with me to the end.**

**For the last time, I don't own ****_Inglourious Basterds._**

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Colonel Hans Landa lived in peace on Nantucket Island for several months after receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor, before being murdered on a cool September evening. In the morning, his corpse was found by a maidservant and the butler. Landa had been lynched, and the word "Nazi" had been carved deeply into his stomach.

Bridget Von Hammersmark immigrated to America after the end of World War II, and starred in several movies there before becoming a director. She made a total of sixteen films before retiring. Though she never married, Von Hammersmark chose to make her home in Tennessee until her death in 1977. She died of cancer.

Lt. Aldo Raine lived in the Smoky Mountains until the end of his days. He had a reputation as a bootlegger who would bribe policemen with homemade whiskey. On his death in 1983, the white smoking jacket that he had worn in Le Gamaar and chose to keep with him afterwards was donated to a museum.

Both he, Bridget, and Utivich were buried in Arlington National Cemetery.

The end.

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**I like happy endings. Landa got ****_exactly_**** what he deserved.**


End file.
